Hannah seemed about to say something else, but footsteps sounded beyond the curtains. An expression of terror rippled across her face, and the dividing curtain fell as she retreated.
The curtain on the other side of Hermione snapped open, and the healer from earlier reappeared, looking harried.
“The Dark Lord wants to watch your examination himself,” the healer said, reaching out and grabbing Hermione's arm forcefully.
Hermione tried instinctively to get away. She jerked her arm out of the healer's grip and dropped off the other side of the bed in order to create distance.
“Oh, you stupid little witch.” The healer sighed, and gestured to someone standing out of Hermione's vision. “Stun her and bring her.”
Two guards appeared from behind the curtain and shot two successive stunners at Hermione. The first she dodged, but the second nicked her shoulder. She dropped like a stone.
When she re-awoke, she was strapped down on a table in a dark hall. Her arms and legs were restrained, still twitching from torture. More straps went over her forehead and chin, holding her head in place. There was a small wizard standing on one side of her. Voldemort himself was standing on the other.
The small wizard was speaking in a thin, trembling voice, gesturing up at a projection of Hermione's brain.
“It — it's unlike anything I've ever seen b-before. Normally magical m-m-memory loss occurs q-q-quite generally across the brain when it is s-s-self generated. A p-person can't even tell you their name. But this is t-targeted. Like obliviation spells. A dissociative fugue, or in this case m-many of them. Almost like self-obliviation. Her magic has hidden specific memories inside what I can only describe as almost a c-c-calcification of magical layers. It probably could never have happened without the specific cir-circumstances of her imprisonment. This t-t-took time. Her brain has been slowly shoring up a line of d-defense over the course of months. Almost like a clam making a pearl, she's been slowly burying them under layer after layer. You c-can tell some have been more extensively protected than others based on how brightly they g-g-glow.”
Voldemort's eyes were narrowed. “Could these memories be recovered with legilimency?”
The small wizard looked more nervous. Faint droplets of perspiration had collected on his upper lip.
“It's — it's unlikely. This is like an individual occlumency wall of exceptional strength around each specific memory. It's — it's p-possible if the legilimens is sufficiently p-p-powerful.”
“I like to think I am,” Voldemort said, looking down into Hermione's eyes. She squeezed them shut instantly, but it was too late.
She thought — she might have known occlumency before. With her magic mostly stolen away, she had no ability to create a wall around her mind. Voldemort shot in like an arrow, burying himself deeply among her memories and then sifting slowly through them. It was as though her mind were being crushed under his.
Her childhood. Hogwarts. He wasn't concerned with her locked memories of her parents. After fifth year, when everything grew hazy, his interest sharpened. He examined her memories of healing. All those bodies. All those injuries. So many people. The closer he got to the end of the war, the more memories were locked. He tried driving into them. He tried stabbing his way through the magic with sheer force. None of them would give away to his violent, insistent attacks.
It was breaking her. The force was mind-numbingly painful, and somehow the pain continued to increase until it felt impossible that she wasn't dying from it. Hermione was writhing as she sought to get away — to escape the invasion. Screaming surrounded her and just kept going on, and on, and on.
Finally Voldemort withdrew from her mind. Furious. She slowly became aware that the screams had been hers. By then, they had been reduced to tiny mewling wails of pain past shredded vocal chords. Guttural sobs that kept choking out as her chest kept spasming from pain, and she struggled to breathe.
“I do not like secrets kept from me. With Potter dead there should be nothing left to conceal. What are you hiding?” Voldemort hissed. His bony fingers seized her face and turned it so that she met his eyes.
“I — don't — know—,“ she said. Her voice was rasping and broken, and she weakly tried to pull her jaw free from his hold.
“Call Severus! And the Warden. She shall be punished for this,” Voldemort said. He viciously probed Hermione's mind until she lay limp and barely conscious on the table.
Umbridge arrived first, looking appropriately terrified.
“My Lord, my Lord,” she said, dropping to the ground and crawling toward him.
“ Crucio .” Voldemort cast the curse, his fury evident in his tone.
Umbridge screamed. She screamed, and screamed, and writhed on the ground. Hermione almost felt sorry for her.
After several minutes, he finally stopped.
“Did you think, Warden, that following the letter but not the spirit of my commands would spare you?”
Umbridge only whimpered.
“I knew of your dislike for the Mudblood, but I had hoped your obedience to me would be sufficient motivation for you to restrain yourself. Perhaps you need a permanent reminder.”
“My Lord—”
“What is that punishment you're so fond of doling out among your charges? Knuckles, isn't it? Tell me, Warden, how many fingers will you have left if I take a knuckle for each month you spent trying to drive the Mudblood insane?”
“Noooooooo.” Umbridge voice rose in a shriek. She was still shaking and spasming on the ground.
“Perhaps I should be lenient,” Voldemort said, walking slowly toward her as she sniveled and grovelled at his feet. “Your work has been mostly good. Instead of sixteen, I'll halve it. Eight knuckles as a reminder I said I wanted Potter's Mudblood left fully intact.”
“Pleeeease...” Umbridge was pushing herself up off the ground, sobbing.
Severus Snape swept into the room.
“What's wrong? Unable to endure consequences of your own devising?” Voldemort sneered, and waved a hand as he turned away from Umbridge. “Take her away. Drop her back at her prison when you're done.”
Two Death Eaters came forward and dragged Umbridge from the room as she begged and wailed apologies.
“Severus, my faithful servant,” Voldemort said, turning toward the Potion Master. “I find myself with a puzzle on my hands.”
“My Lord,” Snape said, folding his hands respectfully in front of him and lowering his eyes.
“You remember the Mudblood, I presume.” Voldemort moved back toward Hermione, staring down at her and running a skeletal finger along his lipless mouth.
“Of course. She was an insufferable student to teach.” Snape walked over to survey Hermione, who was still strapped down on the table.
“Indeed, and a good friend of Harry Potter, the boy who died,” Voldemort said, caressing his wand lightly. “She was also a member of the Order as I'm sure you recall from your many years as my spy. When Potter died, she was captured, and I ordered her imprisoned but left intact in case I ever had need of her. Unfortunately, the warden at Hogwarts saw fit to dole out her own punishment for past offenses. She imprisoned the Mudblood all this time in a cell under sensory deprivation.”
Snape's eyes widened slightly.
Voldemort rested a hand on Snape's shoulder. “According to the mind healers, the experience enabled the Mudblood to lock away her memories. Sealing them off from herself and from me. The identities of her parents — which is of no consequence. More vitally, a great many memories from the war, particularly near the end. This memory loss occurred after Potter died — after the war had ended. What is it that she would be hiding?” There was menace in Voldemort's low sinuous voice. He paused for a moment and then looked down at Hermione. “Perhaps as someone who knew her during that time, you would have some insight into what is missing.”